


365 Days of Getting By

by seamscribe



Series: These Are Cold Days [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-11 00:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5606377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seamscribe/pseuds/seamscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johanna and Gale ring in the New Year.</p><p>(This takes place in the same universe as my story 'These Are Cold Days', six months before. It works as a standalone but works better with the other story.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	365 Days of Getting By

**Author's Note:**

> 'These Are Cold Days' might not be completed, but I couldn't resist.

 

 

365 Days of Getting By

 

 

It was New Years Eve in District 3 and the capitol city was still covered with elaborate Christmas displays that showed off just how technical people liked to get in the engineering district. One big estate a mile away had a display that depicted the new seals of all the districts and—of course—a giant Mockingjay that lit up the whole block. It was, Gale assured her, a huge waste of fucking money. Still, they have found themselves walking through the brightest parts of the city, carefully avoiding the big house with the huge bird flashing out front. Whatever the original meaning of Christmas was, it was now wrapped up in fanatical, ridiculous, stupid, naive patriotism and it drove Johanna fucking crazy.

 

Tonight at midnight, every district would be having an extravagant ceremony to celebrate two years (mostly) war-free and the TV channels were playing specials about the districts non-stop, all of which were extremely positive and careful not to mention anything bad. But lately it actually seemed like everyone in the goddamn world was thrilled with everything and completely satisfied and that was just _so fucking great_ for them.

 

The most obvious problem that Plutarch— _Plutarch_ , of course, who had asked her if she would shoot a propo when she was practically on her death bed. But she had to admire his hustle—he was rich, famous, and pretty much considered a national hero despite never having picked up a gun or a sharp object besides a fucking cheese knife in his whole goddamn life and yeah, _so fucking great_ for him. Still, he was a loyal son-of-a-bitch; he called her every now and then and asked how she was (and whether he could quote her), and he managed to keep all of them out of the press.

 

The most obvious problem was what to do with the clueless Capitolites who were suddenly destitute refugees after the war. Two years later, it was still the biggest mess in New Panem. She had stopped paying attention a long time ago, but Peeta was always wallowing in righteous indignation over their treatment. Plutarch even convinced him to come on his show, which wasn't nearly as fluffy as she expected, where he would proceed to spout a bunch of bleeding-heart crap about compassion. The kid was a better person than her, she guessed, and a lot fucking dumber.

 

So the night of New Years Eve was shaping up to be the second most depressing day in a year of depressing days. Peeta had called earlier and rambled on about how not-so-shitty things were in Twelve. He had even gotten Katniss on the phone and it must have been a good day because talking to her wasn't like pulling teeth for once. It almost made her feel _homesick_ for Thirteen, which was ridiculous and disgusting but at least Thirteen was never lonely.

 

But if there was anyone whose happiness she could never resent, it was the poor stupid star-crossed lovers (and Annie, but this was not the day to think about Annie). He had tried to extract a promise that she'd call later 'if she felt like it'.

 

She had rolled her eyes and said, “You mean, in case I'm about to throw myself out the window?”

 

“I just love talking to you,” he had protested. “And I hope I get to do it for a very, very long time.”

 

“Subtle.”

 

“Really, call me later. I guarantee I'll be stone-cold sober. I'm too nervous to drink anything. Things might not go so well.”

 

“I'll drink for you.”

 

“You can have my hangover, too. Is Gale coming over?” he asked in the annoyed way he always asked about Gale. She couldn't really blame him—her early descriptions of Gale did make him sound like kind of an asshole and kind of a mess, which were both true, but she tried to throw in a few more-or-less happy stories to make up for it.

 

She had to be careful not to talk about it  _too_ much because Peeta was all about  _exploring emotions_ , aka, asking  pointed questions  he knew she didn't want to answer . Questions like, _you drank_ how _much?_ and _Does Aurelius know about that?_ He spent way too much time talking to Aurelius. Actually, talking to Aurelius was practically talking to yourself—he was great at staying silent until it finally drove you crazy (ha ha) and you launched into a rant about everything, plus some stuff he didn't even ask about. 

 

“I don't know. I guess.” She had been careful _not_ to ask because the possibility that he wasn't made her want to throw up, frankly.

 

“Well, call me later. Call and let it ring twice and then hang up.”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

 

“Then I'll know everything's okay. In case you, uh, can't talk.”

 

“What? Because I'm fucking?”

 

“Uh--”

 

“We're not fucking, as I say on a weekly basis.”

 

“Well, I don't know, it's a holiday. People get lonely.”

 

“Ugh, I'm hanging up on you.” She had faintly heard the words 'call me' as she put the phone down.

 

Thankfully, she was only in suspense until eight o clock, when Gale sent a message asking what she wanted for dinner. He showed up with containers of the rice and sticky red sauce that they both liked, along with a big bottle of rum and a bag of limes.

 

“You came to party,” she commented.

 

“What, I only brought one bottle,” he grinned.

 

They got out her single set of plates, which were re-washed about every four fucking hours. She bought disposable plates a few times, but, of course, they were a huge waste of money. Gale was obsessed with money—the only thing he ever spent it on was his family and food, because he had practically never eaten anything. District Twelve seemed to have a diet entirely of bread (shitty bread, in his case), goat cheese, and squirrels. Or rabbits or dogs or whatever.

 

They had a starter drink and she quickly realized that she hadn't eaten anything all day, but she didn't worry too much. She had no plans to leave the apartment and it was already old-hat to drink too much and fall asleep on him. He had tried to pick her up and carry her to bed once and she had almost clawed his eyes out, so now he just got her a blanket and slept on the floor—mostly. And she trusted him. It was fucking weird and dumb, but it was true.

 

Last New Years, it had been over a month since she had seen him. It had been six months before that they met again in Dr. Aurelius' waiting room. In the time between, they became sort of semi-close, so she had ignored him for weeks, naturally, until he called at 7 PM on New Years Eve and asked what she was doing. 

 

They had gotten drunk as  _fuck_ and got kicked out of a bar and laughed all night and it was all great until she started to cry in the elevator on the way up to her apartment. She had backed into the corner and demanded that he leave and they argued about it until he finally just picked her up and carried her to her front door and to her bed. (She was too distracted to claw his eyes out that time.) He insisted on sleeping on the couch and it was all painfully embarrassing but it was also when she gave up and said goodbye to acting like she had her shit together. It was such a relief. He was very kind and she was extremely grateful, so of course, she avoided him for three months.

 

“What are you thinking so hard about?” he suddenly asked.

 

She realized she had been staring into her food for a few minutes. “Nothing.” He rolled his eyes. “Last New Years Eve.”

 

“You mean when I had to carry your ass home?”

 

“Shut up. We were already in the elevator.”

 

“What about it?” he asked.

 

“Just about how much things have changed. I guess not very much,” she frowned.

 

“Well,” he said, raising his glass. “Here's to three hundred sixty-five days of getting by.” She gave him a wry smile and tipped her glass to his. “But I'll admit, some of them were pretty decent. Now eat before you fall over. You're too pale.” He coddled her like no one had since her parents died. There were lots of people who said they cared, but he was the only person who was there every day, stuffing her with food and (hypocritically) telling her to get more sleep.

 

They put on a movie and worked their way through the food and most of the rum by the time it was nearing midnight. When it went off, the TV went dark and the only light in the apartment was the glow from outside. She closed her eyes and they sat in a comfortable silence for awhile. She wasn't able to do this with anyone else except maybe Peeta, but that comfortable silence had been borne out of necessity, in the hours when they could hear each other breathe but couldn't speak.

 

“This is nice,” he said quietly. Her eyes opened when she felt the touch of his hand. He moved closer and took a breath and that was when they heard shouts from outside. They both jumped out of their seats before they realized it was just a crowd in the street counting down. It was ten seconds to midnight.

 

They opened the window onto the street, letting in a gust of cold air. As the people below burst into cheers, he took one of her hands and put his other arm around her, pulling her very gently closer. “Happy New Year.”

 

She allowed herself the incredible luxury of relaxing in his arms for a few minutes, held against him, and she didn't even care that it was a bad idea, it was the best thing she had felt in who knew how fucking long.

 

“You smell nice,” he whispered, not letting go. “Did you take a shower?”

 

“Fuck no,” she mumbled into his shirt. “But I did manage to wash my hair.”

 

He took a deep breath and  his exhale gusted across the back of her neck and made her shiver. He  pulled back enough to look at her and fuck, he had nice eyes and the way he was looking at her was almost dreamy and  _fuck_ , she was about to panic or jump him or something, she didn't even know what.

 

Then he gave her a smile and tugged her close again and held her while they watched the people swirl in the shine of a thousand tiny lights.


End file.
